Unfurling herself around the broken skin she kisses, caresses and soothes.

The wound is tended. It will heal better. Cleaner.

Soon it will be nothing more than the silvery outline of a small scar, crowned with a glistening hedge of hairs and a crop of lazy, brown freckles.

She attaches herself and settles in. A protective shield.

A barrier soaking up the hurt.

 

She is unimpressive to the eye: quilted and plain, satisfyingly sticky. With many layers, smooth and rough.

Day after day she stands sentinel. Cradling, embracing, loving.

And as time wears on, she wears off.

Ratty and ragged, she picks up the dirt, the moisture and the mould.

She begins to smell. Then to stink.

She wreaks of dead skin and fluid. Dirt and detritus.

Absorbing the pain, teasing out the trauma, she swallows the infection.

 

Surrender begins at the edges, but her heart holds strong.

 

Morning.

He has come to break the news.

He looks down. Examining. Exhales in disgust.

He grasps a gnarled, blackened limb. Twisting it, testing it as he hardens his grip.

A gentle pull. A peel, this way and that.

She stands firm. She will not be discarded.

 

He frowns, annoyed.

Stale. He thinks.

Ratty. He thinks.

The quicker the better.

 

In one swift, stinging motion, he rips her, and flings her worn, failing body across the room.

Into the bin, down the toilet, it doesn’t matter.

Whole but crumbling.

Crumbled.

Gone.

 

He looks down again and smiles at infant skin.

The wound almost healed.

He passes a hand across a shadow of blackened glue.

Caress.

The imprint of her love and protection.

 

His brow unfurrows as he runs a hot bath. Release as he submerges.

He softly scrubs his skin, and glue and memories fade.